


Tropical Dick Storm

by ymorton



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for the tsn kinkmeme prompt: "TFLN: I have a feeling that watching gay porn with you was the reason I was dancing in a hurricane of floating dicks in my dream last night." Sexually confused!Dustin experimenting with openly gay!Chris.</p>
<p>what a gem of a title eh </p>
<p>Written Jan. 2011</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tropical Dick Storm

In freshman year, Chris is still trying to convince himself he likes girls. Yes, he had a girlfriend in high school- Lydia, a cross country runner with great legs- but they kissed twice. Each kiss lasted under fifteen seconds. Chris isn’t great at math, but even he can add (multiply?) it up: 2(<15) = maybe still gay.   
  
Harvard is awesome, just like he imagined. Except there are a lot of cute, smart girls- and some of them have legs like Lydia, which, he realizes now, were really muscular and maybe that’s weird and semi-gay in itself but whatever, she still wore skirts. Anyway, the girls. One of them asks him out in the first month, and he kisses another one drunk at a party, her wet rubbery lips planted firmly on his for at least twenty seconds before he pulls away and pukes into a bush.   
  
<20 seconds = not gay, maybe? What’s the time limit on straight kisses?   
  
He meets Dustin the next night, at an AEPi mixer. He’s standing against the wall, not drinking, because he still has dry-mouth and a headache from last night. When he’d called home, his sister had made him promise that he’d be social and try to meet people and make friends with a future millionaire and bring him home to North Carolina for her. From the looks of the kids around him, he hadn’t exactly come to the right party, but whatever. At least he wasn’t moping in his room while his math-major roommate Skyped all his friends in China.   
  
“I thought college parties were supposed to be awesome,” he hears from beside him. The boy next to him is about the same height, with brown hair and a black polo. He’s kind of cute. Not that Chris cares. Objectively, or, you know, to the girls at the party, he’s- well, whatever.   
  
“Yeah,” he says, taking a sip from a red plastic cup. Sprite, but it looks kind of like vodka.   
  
“Are you Jewish?”   
  
“Uh, no,” Chris says, looking at the guy again. “Is that usually how you start conversations?”   
  
“This is, uh, Alpha Epsilon Pi, or whatever, the Jewish frat, so I thought. I am. Jewish. It’s cool. Member of the tribe, yea-ahhh-” he trails off with a weak, unconvincing “gangsta” flip of his hand.   
  
Chris looks a little closer, and oh- the guy is really really wasted. He hadn’t noticed before. Some drunk people are sneaky like that. They’re all quiet and self-contained until suddenly they’re throwing up on your shoes. He sidles away a step. He _just_  got these shoes.   
  
The guy hiccups and stares down at his feet. “Shit, I am really fucking drunk,” he mumbles to himself. Chris nods.   
  
“You seem like it.”   
  
“Sorry, man, I just-”  
  
“It’s cool,” he says. “Where do you live?”   
  
“What, are you gonna take advantage of me?” He leers jokingly at Chris, and shockingly, Chris blushes. Ugh.   
  
“Funny,” he says dryly.   
  
“I live in the Yard. Room two... fourteen. Yeah. Not fifteen. I remembered it was fourteen because it was the year I got braces. Which is uncool. I don’t know why I just told you that.” He trails off, and closes his eyes.   
  
Chris waits for a second. Okay. Apparently the guy’s done talking.   
  
“Well, maybe you should head back,” he says, but the boy doesn’t move.   
  
“Okay. Fine. Fuck.”   
  
He puts the kid’s arm over his shoulder and walks him back to the Yard. He keeps falling against Chris and mumbling, and Chris resolutely tries to ignore his sweet, boozy breath in his ear, the way his lips keep accidentally brushing against Chris’ neck. He gets goosebumps and pretends its from the late-night early-autumn chill.   
  
“Dude.” Chris shakes the guy when they get back to the room. “Your keys. Where are your keys?”   
  
No answer. Chris pounds on the door.   
  
“‘Sup?” The guy’s roommate is like, 6 feet, built, and apparently prone to monosyllabic sentences.   
  
“Um, your roommate -” Chris gestures to him. “He, uh, passed out at a party. I can’t find his keys.”  
  
“Chill,” the roommate says, and accepts Chris’ awkwardly dumped offer of the boy’s limp body. “Peace.”   
  
Chris nods as the door closes in his face. Huh. Sort of a weird night, but better than making out with some girl. Honestly, most things are. 

Chris  _officially_  meets Dustin the next weekend, when Eduardo from his Spanish Lit class brings him to Mark’s (from multivariable calc class) room and Dustin (from Mark’s CS class) is there. Whoever woulda thunk a history major and a computer science major would be in the same room. Really warms your heart.   
  
Anyway, Eduardo introduces him, and Dustin goes red when he sees Chris.   
  
“Dude- oh, hey-”  
  
“Oh, do you two know each other?”  
  
“Not really. Chris,” Chris says, leaning down to shake the kid’s hand. He feels weirdly confident, almost giddy with it, because he saw the guy wasted and he seems kind of like an idiot anyway, not in a bad way, more in a lovable, comic-relief sort of way.   
  
“Dustin,” the guy mumbles. Dustin mumbles. He’s Dustin now.   
  
“And that’s Mark,” Eduardo says, gesturing to the guy at the computer. He doesn’t even look up.   
  
“You wanna play?” Dustin says, offering Chris a controller, and Chris takes it gingerly. He didn’t have a video-game-thingy at home, and twice a year hour-long game sessions with his hick-ass cousins hasn’t taught him much.   
  
“Sure.” He sits down on the couch, and slides toward Dustin accidentally. Remembers briefly the warmth of him, draped over his shoulder, and then pushes away at the same time Dustin does.   
  
“Oh my God, you  _suck,_ ” Dustin says as he kills Chris yet again. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I don’t even know, dude, but you have a hole in your body. Deal with that. Preeeetty big hole. Might wanna get that fixed up.”   
  
Chris laughs.   
  
“Wait, which button is the ammo change again?” he asks, and Dustin heaves a long-suffering sigh and reaches over him to grab the controller, and wow, he is extremely close. And warm. And he fiddles with the controller while still hovering over Chris’ lap and he is extremely aware of the fact that they’re alone in a dark room. Eduardo and Mark went to get dinner, and Dustin’s hair is brushing Chris’ chin, and he straightens up finally with a “ha! I basically just took all game control away from you,” and Chris tries to ignore how he’s suddenly cold.   
  
“You’re kicking me when I’m down? Harsh.”   
  
“There’s no mercy in war, Chris. This is Call of Duty, not My Little Pony.”   
  
“What! I’ve been trying to ride the pony for ten minutes now!”   
  
Dustin shoots him a look and laughs. “You’re fucking weird, dude.”   
  
Chris sticks out his tongue and Dustin grins, then stabs at the buttons and shoots Chris again.   
  
“Oh my God, I give up,” Chris says, throwing the controller down, and Dustin does a brief but embarrassing victory dance that involves the lawnmower, the little-used Q-tip, and an obscene amount of shimmying.   
  
“Uh-huh oh yeah uh-huh oh yeah,” he chants, while mock-punching Chris, and Chris will never admit that he squeals a little bit, hands in front of his face.   
  
One punch lands on Chris’ shoulder, and Dustin stops, too close to Chris’ face, breathing at him, eyes fixed on his lips. Chris angles his chin up because it seems like the right thing to do, and Dustin nearly leans down but jerks away at the last second, and grabs the controller off the couch.   
  
“Another game?” he says, voice a little rough, and Chris closes his eyes when he sees Dustin reach down and adjust himself in his jeans, surreptitiously.   
  
“Yeah-” Chris says weakly, trying to think of legs and skirts and tits. “Yeah, sure.”   
  
\---  
  
A year later, Chris has realized that the whole puking-after-kissing-girls thing is symptomatic of something else, namely the fact that he prefers boys. It’s cool, at Harvard- no one really gives a shit, and Mark and Chris barely blink when he brings home his first boyfriend/fuck buddy, and then his second and his third. Dustin moans a little about how he’s not getting any, and Mark just nods and waves from the computer, and it’s all nice and accepting and normal until the night Dustin walks in on him watching porn, and stays. They talk through it, mostly, laughing at the bad acting, but Chris looks at him sideways and sees Dustin lick his lips, eyes alert and interested, when the guy in the video goes to his knees.   
  
Chris grins down at his lap. Interesting.   
  
He doesn’t say anything, but the next day Dustin texts him-

_i have a feeling that watching gay porn with you was the reason I was dancing in a hurricane of floating dicks in my dream last night._  
  
Chris snorts, out loud, right in the middle of 20th Century Russian History. His best friend and eternal fag-hag Melissa elbows him, and he shows her the phone under his desk, still grinning.   
  
Her mouth falls open and she laughs, silently and breathless. Chris settles back in the chair, taking a few half-hearted notes about the Bolshevik Revolution. It only takes two minutes of that for him to yank his phone out of his sweatshirt pocket again.  
  
 _what kind of dance are we talking? was it manly? or was it, like, the macarena because i worry for you_    
  
His phone buzzes loud on his desk under his notebook a minute later, and Melissa shakes his head at him disbelievingly. The ninety year old professor doesn't even blink.   
  
 _im confiding in you and you're making fun of me? harsh_  
  
Chris laughs.   
  
 _we can get dinner tonight and ill make it up to you  
  
thats kinda gay dude like a date?  
  
oh it wont be half as gay as your tropical dick storm  
  
whatever bro lets meet at seven and you're buying_  
  
They do meet at seven, and eat a normal dinner with normal food and normal beer and normal conversation about girls and CS and how obvious it is that Mark and Wardo are fucking, so how they end up in Chris' room, kissing close-mouthed and awkward and dry against the door, is anyone's guess.   
  
Chris thinks maybe it's been coming for a while, like when Dustin speaks in monosyllables to the guys Chris takes home or talks a little too long about how he walked in on Mark and Wardo, and says  _how- how do you do that, Chris -_  with more interest than most supposedly completely straight guys.   
  
"Shit-" Dustin says, pulling back, eyes wide and scared, and Chris rubs a hand over Dustin's crotch through his jeans, grins a little when Dustin exhales and starts to get hard.  
  
"I'm not gay," Dustin says, and Chris nods comfortingly at him, and leans down to suck the spot beneath Dustin's ear. Dustin shivers.  
  
"Your little dick tornado- did it- did it turn you on?" Chris murmurs, laughing against Dustin's neck.   
  
"Fuck off," Dustin says, but he's grinning, and they're kissing again.   
  
Dustin makes a little uncomfortable sound when Chris tries to get his tongue in his mouth, but Chris persists and Dustin eventually gasps his approval, licking tentatively at Chris' lips.   
  
"Bed?" Chris murmurs, and Dustin lets Chris lead him there. Sprawls, legs open, on the bed, looking up in wonder when Chris peels off his shirt and kicks off his pants.   
  
"Shit-" he says again, to the outline of Chris' cock in his briefs, and Chris laughs, straddles him, putting their mouths together again.  
  
"You like that? Kissing?" Chris says a couple minutes later, when Dustin shudders and thrusts his hips up. He has goosebumps, and he bites his lip hard when Chris runs a light finger around his nipple under his t-shirt, again and again.   
  
"You're supposed to be the gay-spert, you should know," Dustin says, cutting himself off with a sharp inhale when Chris pinches his nipple hard. "Fuck, Chris, that hurt."   
  
"You're right," Chris says, and he pushes Dustin's shirt up with both hands. They get tangled in it for a second, but finally Dustin emerges, hair somehow more messy than before.   
  
"Okay, so this doesn't really mean anything though, because like, I like you, dude, like, friend-like, right?"   
  
"This means nothing at all," Chris says lightly, not quite sure if it's true or not, and bites at the muscle between neck and shoulder.

Chris gets on his knees. He's not a slut, not really, not like some of the gay guys at Harvard, but maybe he's wanted to blow Dustin since he caught him jacking off last semester, biting on his fist to keep quiet, fisting himself at his desk chair looking at porn.   
  
"It's no big deal," Chris says, and unzips Dustin's jeans. "God, you're so fucking hard." He watches Dustin shudder, watches the precome bead at the tip of his cock. Girls are so boring. They never talk dirty.  
  
"-oh fuck, Chris, oh _fuck-_ "   
  
"Yeah?" Chris says, pulling off.   
  
"Asshole," Dustin gasps.   
  
"You ever had this before?" Chris asks, and Dustin nods jerkily, swallowing.   
  
"Who was she?"   
  
Dustin narrows his eyes at him. "It was last year. Chris. Just."   
  
"You can put your hand in my hair, if you want," Chris says, grinning, and Dustin does, cautiously. It's cute how nervous he is.   
  
"You can move, if you want," he murmurs, putting his head down again. "Move your hips."   
  
Dustin exhales shakily, and doesn't, so Chris just sucks at him hard until he's babbling and his hips are jerking helplessly, hand gripping at Chris' hair just a shade too tight.   
  
"That's it-" Chris pants, and does it again. Dustin puts his other hand on Chris' bare shoulder, just holding him there.   
  
"I'm gonna c-come," Dustin says, voice expressionless and tight and shaking just slightly, like it's out of some instruction manual he's read.  _How to Warn One's Best Friend and Current Sex Partner When One is About to Come._  
  
"I would hope," Chris says, and hums, and Dustin comes.   
  
"Fuck-" he groans, long and low, hand still in Chris' hair. Chris swallows, and licks him, slow, long licks on his thighs and the crease of his hips.   
  
"That's what they- you're-they-"   
  
"- did in the porn, I know," Chris finishes, lifting his head. Dustin exhales, eyes wide, face like a five year old's at Disneyland.   
  
"What do you want me to do?" he asks, when Chris stands up.  
  
"What do you want to do?"   
  
Dustin swallows, shrugs, but draws Chris towards him by the hips, puts his hand over the bulge in his underwear.   
  
"You could just do that, if you want - fucking Christ, Dustin."   
  
Dustin's pulling down his underwear, curiously, and Chris' knees nearly give out when he rubs a tentative thumb over the slit.   
  
"I need to sit down- Jesus."   
  
Dustin's focusing, all narrow eyes and tongue peeking out of his mouth, and Chris sometimes forgets that Dustin's actually sort of a genius. Mostly because he acts like such a fucking idiot all of the time.   
  
"Just do it like you do yourself," Chris says, encouragingly, and Dustin twists his hand around and squeezes and fuck that's good.   
  
"Feels weird."   
  
"Feels so good, Dustin."   
  
Dustin lets him sit down, and then goes back to work, and Chris comes fast, biting his lip, eyes squeezed shut. Dustin wipes his hand on his own t-shirt, wrinkling his nose.  
  
"You okay?" Chris asks, pushing himself up on his elbows. Dustin nods and flops next to him, exhaling hard. Noses at his shoulder, mouth warm.   
  
"How gay are your dreams going to be tonight?" Chris asks, and starts laughing, giddy and loose-limbed.  
  
Dustin snorts.   
  
"Seriously. Where can we go from Hurricane Penis? Maybe a cyclone? A typhoon?"  
  
"Shut up," Dustin says, grinning, eyes closed.  
  
"Eduardo could probably advise us on some more meteorological patterns for you to fill with dicks. El Niño, maybe?"   
  
Dustin rolls over and kisses him to shut him up. Chris buries a hand in his hair and laughs.   
  
"You're not exactly straight, are you," he says quiet against Dustin's lips.   
  
Dustin shrugs; he can feel it. "What gave it away?" he says, and kisses him again.


End file.
